


A String of Pearls

by cagedbirdsong



Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2018-12-06 22:30:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11610255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cagedbirdsong/pseuds/cagedbirdsong
Summary: With his country caught in the throes of the second world war, Jamie Fraser enlists in the Royal Air Force. He expects a few solid years of travel and excitement, of chasing Germans and winning battles. But what he expects and what he gets are two different things. From the blooms of romance after a Friday night tryst to the muddy back roads of England, our young pilot is in for a lot more than he signed up for.





	1. Prologue; Smile While you Kiss Me Sad Adieu

“ _Nana!_ ” The woman, apron tied about her waist and mess of white hair thrown haphazardly into a bun on her head, looked up at once at the shrill cry of a child, her eyes lighting with a smile. She stood, a small bunch of wild sunflowers clutched in one hand, and turned just in time to meet the barreling form of a five year old, arms thrown suddenly around her knees.

“Oh! Hello, Alex,” she cooed, brushing the child’s shock of auburn hair off his face. “Would you like to help Nana finish in the garden? I think I have some blueberries you can help me pick, hmm?” She ran one finger down the bridge of his nose, tapping on the end, and then leaned down to drop a kiss on his forehead.

Alexander’s eyes lit up, and he flashed a toothy grin that stretched from each side of his face. Without a word, he nodded furiously and dashed off into the garden, making immediately for the large blueberry bush in the back.

“Make sure you save _some_ of the berries, love, else we won’t have any for later!” the old woman called with a smile, making her way more slowly back to kneel down by the cluster of sunflowers she had been tending to.

Across the garden, her grandson peered back at her, slanted blue eyes wide and shining with merriment. “Mmph! M’kay Nana!” He dissolved into giggles, and his berry smeared face disappeared back into the bush. Her own yellow eyes glowed with amusement.

His grandmother rolled her eyes with a smile, and sighed. _He always loved blueberries, too, my lad._

* * *

 Some time later, with a vase of sunflowers and a basket of blueberries safely residing on the counter, the pair found themselves on the front porch, the woman sitting in an old rocking chair, and the small child curled up on her lap. His head was tucked neatly into the crook of her shoulder, his hair a mess of red against her pure white.

“Nana?” Alexander inquired, turning up to look into her softly weathered face.

“Hmm?” She looked down at him, crows feet curling at the corners of her eyes. “What, my dear?”

“Tell me a story?”

She smiled and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, rocking gently. “And _what_ would you like to hear a story about?”

He smiled almost shyly, his tiny, soft hands pleating creases in her apron. He mumbled something unintelligibly, peering up at her beneath auburn lashes that were light at the roots and darkened into amber. She sighed softly, and smoothed her hand over the back of his head.

“Alex, you _know_ Nana can’t hear you when you mumble.” She arched one eyebrow with a half smile.

“Sorry, Nana,” the boy murmured, and then sat up so that he could look at her. “I want to hear the one about you and grandda.”

The woman’s smile didn’t falter, but she let out a long, slow breath, and her hand came up unconsciously to touch a man’s ring that hung around her neck; it was a simple thing, an iron band that at one point held a beautiful ruby, but was empty and unadorned now. It was worth nothing, that ring, yet everything. Her eyes found the patch of wild sunflowers in her garden, and she closed her eyes briefly, caught in a trance.

Her grandson waited patiently; she could feel the excitement coming off him in waves. He almost vibrated, trembling in anticipation.

She opened her eyes, and gold met blue, and she laughed. “You’ve heard that one a hundred times, my love. Why don’t _you_ tell it to _me_ this time?”

The boy giggled, and leaned his back against her chest, his hands coming to rest atop hers; her long fingers had become knobbly with age, the skin soft and wrinkled, the palms calloused and weathered from life and her time in the gardens. There were two things about them that never changed; the silver circlet tucked on the fourth finger of her left hand, and the smell of dirt and grass that seemed to linger on her skin always.

“ _Weelllllllllll_ ,” he began with a smile, “it started in a bar on a rainy Friday night…”


	2. Nature Boy

It started in a bar on a rainy Friday night…

The door clanged shut behind him with a rattle of the thin window pane, and Jamie at once pulled his hat off his head to beat it against his leg, turning the collar of his coat down as he was at enveloped in the warmth and energy of the bar. Outside, a stray clap of thunder heralded the worst of the storm, and he shivered in relief to be out of the rain.

“Jamie!” The voice across the room caught his attention at once; his lifelong best friend Ian Murray was crowded with a group of guys at the end of the bar, and stood half out of his seat, flagging Jamie down with his hat over the crowd of people dancing, smoking, and drinking.

“Ian!” He clapped the other man on the shoulder, already reaching for a shot from one of the others, and tapped their glasses briefly together. “Sláinte!” They tipped their whiskey back together.

When they came up again, Ian grasped Jamie by the back of the head, pulling him in close to hear him over the din of people dancing and live music. “Whaddaya think, Jamie? A wee bit o’ trouble before the end?” His eyes glittered with the beginnings of a drunken stupor, and he punched Jamie neatly in the shoulder. “Find us some girls ta make us men before we die in this bloody war?” His smile faltered, the air momentarily silent between them, but then Ian shook his head and leaned across the counter, signaling for two more shots of whiskey. He pressed one into Jamie’s hand. “Nay mind that! Sláinte!”

Jamie flashed his own grin in return, and threw back the shot. Across the bar, a brunette woman peered at him from over the rim of her glass. He arched an eyebrow, and her eyes smiled, entrancing him for the briefest of moments. The slam of Ian’s shot glass on the counter broke him free of her gaze, and when he glanced back she had turned back to chat with a redheaded woman.

“Come, Ian,” he shouted, grasping his friend by the arms and hauling him up. “Have a dance!”

* * *

  
“Just a beer, thank you!” Claire practically had to shout at the poor server to allow him to hear her over the chaos of people talking, a live band playing music, and the stomp of dancing feet. Minutes later, the young man dropped a mug of ale in front of her and a martini in front of her friend Geillis.

“So, Claire.” Geillis leaned in, her glass untouched. “What say you to a little fun tonight? I’m sure there’s a young laddie somewhere in here just _waiting_ to be seduced.” Her eyes glittered with mirth.

Claire felt her cheeks flush, and shook her head with a laugh, sipping at the foam of her beer. “I say not tonight, Geillis! Unlike our _young laddie_ , I am waiting to be absolutely hammered. We’ve been accepted into medical school; we might as well kill our livers to celebrate!” The redheaded woman raised her glass in cheers, and the two sat peaceably in relative silence, enjoying the clamor of life around them.

After a moment, Geillis nudged her. “Well, don’t look now, but there’s a handsome young laddie just walked in, hmm? Are ye quite sure ye wouldna like ta get hammered _and_ hammered?” She dissolved into a fit of giggles, and Claire’s face blazed.

“Quite sure, thank you, Geillis.” Nevertheless, she looked.

He _was_ quite an attractive young man, tall and lean and broad shouldered. She could make out small details of his face from such a distance, but could see the prominent line of brow and jaw. A mop of auburn curls topped it all off. She couldn’t tell, but she’d bet his eyes were blue.

Geillis was looking at her with a gleam in her eye.

“ _Thank you,_ Geillis,” she said, raising her mug and turning her back on the newcomer. Still, she found her eyes sliding in his direction every now and again, drawn almost magnetically to the stranger.

* * *

She was looking at him again. That had to be at least the fourth time Jamie had made eye contact with her, that woman from across the bar. Naturally, he and Ian drifted closer, weaving through the crowd clustered on the cleared swath of floor being used for dancing, both curious to get a sly look at her.

He risked a smile in her direction, and he might have imagined it, but she ever so slightly raised her drink, eyes glittering. He lifted his glass.

Ian kept looking at him smugly, eyebrows raised. “Are ye no’ gonna go over there and talk to her?”

Jamie snorted, walking to the bar for another drink and leaving his friend to follow. “Am I no’ gonna talk to her? Of course I’m not.”

He might as well have been stupid, for the look Ian gave him. “And _why_ no’?”

Jamie shrugged, accepted a glass of brandy, and rubbed a knuckle beneath his nose. “I canna just go and make advances on a lady like that. She’s out wi’ a friend, enjoying herself. Would ye drop it, ye wee fiend?”

Ian groaned and threw himself bodily upon the bar. The tender paused to look at him, and he wagged a finger theatrically in Jamie’s direction. “He’ll die a virgin, my stupid friend!”

The bartender poured them both more whiskey.

* * *

_“He’s looking again!”_ Geillis leaned in close enough that her breath stirred the hairs by Claire’s ear, and her skin momentarily prickled in discomfort as she shoved the other woman away.

“Oh, do stop, Geillis. Really, can’t you just enjoy the two of us being out at a bar? We’re women in a man’s world, this is call for celebration! Do you _know_ how many women actually get to attend med school in this day and age?”

Geillis grinned. “I know o’ two!” She leaned in and dropped her voice. “One of which is about ta become a major in anatomy.”

Claire groaned.

“Maybe he’ll come over here.” The other woman was chattering now, brimming with excitement. “Oh, I wonder what his voice sounds like. I bet it’d make yer wee heart _ooze_.”

“If your heart’s oozing, my friend, find a doctor,” Claire grumbled into her drink.

But her eyes still flickered across the room. Hopeful.

* * *

“I suppose I could go and say hello…” Jamie caught her eye again, and this time gave a small smile. She blushed, he licked his lips, and her eyes grew momentarily wide.

“Damn right ye could go and say hello ye auld fool!” Ian leaned far enough forward to almost topple off his stool, grabbing onto the bar counter for support. “It’s one word! I’m sure ye can manage.” He giggled into a tankard of beer, and Jamie thought he heard him murmur “clotheid.”

One word. He could manage one word.

He took one last swig of his drink and stood up.

* * *

“Oh my God, he _is_ coming over!” Geillis squealed, hiding her face in her drink, and Claire’s head snapped up.   
Sure enough, the ginger fellow had abandoned his friend at the bar and was picking his way across the room, his eyes trained on her. Claire felt a shiver rip down her spine.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, “he’s coming over.”

* * *

He was close enough now that he could see little streaks of honey amid the chocolate of her curls.

* * *

His face came suddenly into view, like a telescope put into focus. His eyes were blue.

* * *

“Evening, ladies,” he said too quickly, his tongue feeling thick in his mouth.

The redhead giggled. The brunette woman just smiled a little, cheeks flushing.

He cleared his throat.

“I, uhm,” Jesus Christ, this should not have been so hard. “Could I - I would like verra much to buy ye a drink, miss.” Blue met gold, and he could have died then and there and been a happy man.

She smiled, and something in his stomach tightened, like a rubber band stretched too far. “If you tell me your name.” Her voice was musical, and when she leaned in to better be heard over the sounds of the bar, he caught a whiff of her perfume; lilac.

* * *

“Jamie Fraser.” His name spilled off his lips all at once, his eyes locked on hers. “At your service, ma’am,” he added as an afterthought. Beneath the table, Geillis stepped on Claire’s toes.

“A pleasure, Jamie,” she smiled, extending a hand. “Claire Beauchamp.”

“Claire.” He said her name reverently, and she felt her knees go momentarily week as he took her hand and bent to kiss the knuckles, folding the fingers over his own calloused digits.

* * *

He hoped his palms weren’t sweating. Her hand was delicate and smooth in his, cool as porcelain, and the smell of her perfume was stronger as he pressed his lips to his knuckles, the smell of flowers and her skin suddenly heady. He straightened, and smiled, testing her name on his lips. “And what will ye be drinking, Claire?”

She smiled coyly, peering up at him through her lashes. “Whatever you’re having.”

* * *

Her lips met his with a clash of tongue and teeth, desperate and hungry, and her hands flew up to grab fistfuls of his curls, tugging and pulling in her need to be closer to him. He slipped his hands up under her dress, roaming over thighs and around the curve of her arse as she ground against his lap, pulling back to catch her breath.

They had gone outside to talk under the guise of it being quieter, but one thing had led to another and they found themselves a tangle of limbs in Jamie’s old Ford now, the windows slightly fogged and their breath mingling in the air.

“Oh _God,_ ” Claire groaned as he dropped his attention to her chest, fingers fumbling with the buttons as his lips sought out what skin he could reach. Her fingers tightened in his curls as he finally got the buttons open enough to expose the skin of her breasts, which prickled with goosebumps. Her hands dropped suddenly from his hair to his shoulders, clawing and pushing at his shirt. He had been wearing a tie, but he had no idea where that was now, and Claire was yanking at the collar, panting. It popped open suddenly, buttons flying, and she shoved it down off his shoulders, smoothing her hands over his now bare skin.

God, he could have died.

She caught his mouth again, and he tasted blood as her tooth caught his lip, her tongue smoothing over the cut without pause. He groaned and she swallowed it down, dragging her nails across his back.

“Let’s get out of here,” she breathed against his lips, and oh how he wanted to do just that. One of her hands shot momentarily down between them to grasp him through his pants, and his hips jerked of their own accord, eliciting a small noise of pleasure from her.

He wanted to lose himself in her, in the taste of her skin and the smell of her hair. It took entirely too much effort to pull back from her, one hand coming up to cup her cheek. “Wait, wait.” She sat back on his thighs, hands falling from his shoulders, and he offered her a reassuring smile. “Believe me,” he murmured, and his voice was husky, “there’s nothing I should like more, but I can’t.” Confusion briefly flickered across her face, and he brushed his thumb across her cheek. “I ship out in the morning,” he breathed, speaking the words for the first time. “I’m with the RAF. Gonna go and see if we can’t shake these Jerries.”

She sat quietly for a moment, and then laughed a bit, sliding off his lap to sit next to him. “You’re a crab.” She must have seen the question on his face - she raised her hand to fix her hair and then turned to face him. “It’s a term for the air force boys. I have a friend in the Marines.” The hand waved in dismissal. “Where are you going?”

He smiled a little, and licked his lips, shrugging. “Dinna ken. Wherever they put me, I suppose.” She laughed, and her eyes crinkled at the corners.

“Well, I hope it’s nowhere _too_ dangerous. Just a little. Get your blood pumping.” She was doing a well enough job of that right now, and she damn well knew it. He grinned.

“I’m sorry ta disappoint ye, lass,” he chuckled, gesturing to their varying states of disarray, and she shook her head with a smile.

“It’s probably best I don’t leave my friend to her own devices anyway.” She turned his rearview mirror so she could see herself, and did her best to quickly compose her appearance, and then she was opening the door of his truck and sliding out into the night as if their little tryst had never happened.

“I- Claire, wait-” he leaned over, making to get out of the truck as well, but she shook her head and leaned up to kiss him briefly, a fistful of his shirt caught in her hand.

When she pulled back, she pressed a small square of linen into his palm; a handkerchief, white and clean with a small rose embroidered in the corner. He caught a whiff of her perfume on it. He looked up at her and licked his lips, eyebrows furrowed. “Why?”

She shrugged, and stepped back with a smile, backing away from his truck. “Just a little something to remember your life before the war when you get tired of shooting at Jerries all day.”

And then she was gone, disappearing into the night and leaving him with little more than the taste of her on his lips and a folded up piece of fabric, warm from touching her skin.

He leaned back against the seat and blew out a breath. “Jesus.”


	3. Wish Me Luck as You Wave Goodbye

“Are ye _sure_ ye have everything?” Jamie grinned and ducked neatly away from Jenny’s questing hands, catching her wrists.

“Jenny. I’ve got everything. I’ve no’ forgotten my socks or my clean underwear _or_ my razor. Will ye stop yer worrying, woman?” He smiled and leaned in to kiss her forehead, bending to sling the last of his suitcases into the back of Ian’s father’s pick up.

It seemed as if they had been going back and forth like this all morning, Jenny nervously fretting that Jamie would forget something, and him reassuring her he wouldn’t. Even when some extended family and friends came over to wish the boys good luck, she was slyly double checking his bags, mentally tallying up his possessions. Now that they were alone, able to say their private goodbyes, she was getting even more anxious.

Jenny smoothed down the front of her dress, shoulders heaving as she took a deep breath. “Aye, right, I just worry, ye wee mongrel.” She smiled at him, shoving his shoulder playfully. “Ye’d forget yer own head were it no’ stuck on yer shoulders.” She let out a huff and stared up at him for a moment before throwing her arms around his neck, her hand cupping the back of his head. He heard her sniffle, and she hid her face in the crook of his shoulder.

“Aw, Jenn,” he murmured, arms coming up to lock around her. He closed his eyes with a sigh and leaned his head against hers. “Dinna fash, they’ll no’ send two fresh faced lads like me and Ian up to the frontlines, aye? We’re like ta be scrubbin’ bathrooms wi’ our toothbrushes for the next few months, if no’ years.” This earned a small, wet laugh from his sister, and she nodded, releasing him after a moment and wiping furiously at her eyes.

“Ye’re probably right, ye big fool. But I’ll still worry. Ye’ll write, won’t ye? Whenever ye can?” Her eyes wavered as she looked up at him, red and slightly puffy. Jamie’s heart ached.

He nodded, cleared his throat, and reached out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ears. “Aye, Jenn, of course I will. Whenever I can.” He leaned in and kissed her forehead.

She took one final deep breath, and then stepped back, her composure suddenly returned. “Good.” Then she turned to look at Ian, and smiled. “Don’t be thinkin’ ye’re gettin’ off easy either, man. Come here and give me a hug.”

Ian flashed a smile in return, and stepped over to wrap his arms tightly around Jamie’s sister. When he released her, he stepped back a fraction, but kept a hand on her arm. “Take care, Janet, won’t ye?”

Jamie glanced away, feeling as if he was suddenly intruding on something he shouldn’t be.

“It’s you two I’m worrit about. Don’t be fools, and keep an eye on him, Ian, _please._ ”

“Aye, of course. I’ll no’ leave his side.” The two embraced again, and then drew apart, and Ian clapped Jamie on the shoulder, mischief in his eyes. “Are ye ready then, Jamie?”

The niggling tension in his chest melted, replaced rapidly by a fleeting feeling of excitement, and Jamie nodded, grinning. “As I’ll ever be.”

The last thing he saw as the truck rattled down the driveway from their family home was Jenny standing in the driveway, arms folded against her chest. Jamie, caught in a sudden tidal wave of emotion, ripped the cap from his head and stretched to hang out the window, looking back at her. He waved his hat furiously, letting out a holler of farewell.

In the distance, his sister, alone in front of an empty house, raised one hand in goodbye.

* * *

“Whadda ya think, Ian? Think they’ll gi’ us toothbrushes ta scrub the toilets wi’, or do ye reckon we’ll have ta use our own?”

They had been trapped in the car for almost five hours, and Jamie had decided to fill the silence with any number of ridiculous questions and ideas that popped into his head. Ian was quickly losing interest in the little game, though Jamie could feel the same nervous excitement radiating from him.

“Christ, Jamie, I’ve no idea.” He rolled his eyes, though a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Would ye just get yer damn bags? We’ll miss the train.”

“I’m only thinking,” Jamie mused, swinging his bags down from the bed of the pickup, and waving Ian’s father, who had driven them this far, goodbye, “what if they _do_ give us extra toothbrushes, but they look just like ours, and one day ye wake up and go ta brush yer teeth and get a mouthful o’ some other bugger’s shite?”

This got the desired reaction. Ian groaned with laughter and clapped an arm around Jamie’s shoulders, bags in hand as the two made their way down the platform. “I think we should be happy if that’s the worst o’ our troubles, my friend.” Somewhere down the platform, a man shouted their train number, and they took off at sprints, hollering and trying not to drop their things as they scrambled onto the train just as the doors closed, collapsing into a pair of open seats with poorly suppressed breathless laughter. “I think-” Ian gasped, head between his knees, “we should worry about more pressing matters first, like _getting there._ ”

* * *

 “Just you wait til we’re actual air force boys,” Ian murmured over an early supper some time later, eyes glittering, “ye’ll have that lass back at the bar knockin’ on yer door.”

Jamie snorted into his drink, the tips of his ears turning slightly pink at the notion, and cleared his throat, aware suddenly of the handkerchief, which he had folded up and tucked in a side pocket of his bag. A reminder, she had said. He coughed.

Ian, catching on to his awkwardness, grinned, eyebrows shooting up.  “Oh? Unless she’s already come callin’?” His eyes flashed wickedly, and Jamie sunk into his seat, almost melting in embarrassment.

“Would ye shut it, ye filthy animal?” But he couldn’t help the smirk at the corner of his mouth either.

“Shit, Jamie!” Ian leaned forward on his elbows, food forgotten, and looked at his watch. “We’ve twenty minutes before Lincolnshire. Ye better tell me everything.”

Jamie kicked him under the table, grinning. “There’s nothing _to_ tell! We went out to my truck, made out a bit, but that’s it. I told her I was shipping out this morning.”

Ian was slackjawed. “Jamie. Ye mean ta tell me that ye had the chance ta have _that_ and ye passed it up for a good night’s sleep?”

Jamie turned bright red. “I- look, I barely know her, it’s-”

“I was right. Ye’ll die a virgin.” He shook his head, and looked over to a man sitting across the aisle, smiling down at his newspaper, obviously amused. “Would ye believe him?” Ian asked, hurling a thumb at Jamie.

The man chuckled, peering at them over his newspaper, and shook his head good naturedly.

* * *

 Their arrival at the Royal Air Force College in Lincolnshire was less than glamorous, but no less exciting than either of the boys had expected. From the train station, a bus had taken them the rest of the way - about a fifteen minute ride to the campus. They had stepped off to be greeted by a large plaque with _Royal Air Force College Cranwell_ chiseled into the stone.

From there, they had been greeted by a cold faced man in a blue uniform, matching cap shielding his eyes from the evening sun. Jamie and Ian, along with a small crowd of other cadets, gathered in close, excitement and nerves passing in waves through them all.

“Welcome to Cranwell, boys. I expect you’ll make the most of your experience here. This will be your home for the next few months, though I daresay you will not enjoy it.” His eyes, black and empty, scanned over the crowd. “Some of you will go home-” silence “-some of you will go on to become pilots-” murmurs of anticipation “-and some of you will become aces-” here the hushed comments were barely kept in control, and the man stood silent, unwilling to continue until everyone had quieted down. “First things first,” he began after they caught on, “my name is Captain Weinstock. You will do as I say, when I say, and you will not speak over me.” He did not raise his voice, but silence fell heavy on them all, and Jamie instantly respected him. “Regardless of what happens to you,” Jamie thought he heard his voice soften fractionally, “you’ve done your country a service coming here. She could use all the men she can get.” Absolute silence. Weinstock cleared his throat, and the twinge of emotion was gone. “I expect to find you all showered, dressed, and with your bunks made by the time I get to your quarters at oh five hundred tomorrow. Understood?” A chorus of agreement.

* * *

 Weinstock left the crew to their own devices after that, turning them over to the hands of one Lieutenant Chockhelm, who gave them a brief tour of the campus, showed them to their barracks, and demonstrated once how they should fold their uniforms and make their beds. Each man had been provided with three outfits - one set of navy blue shorts and a white t-shirt for physical training, a set of casual olive green battle dress uniforms, and a set of crisp blues.

“You’ll be expected to be dressed for PT every morning, gents. No exceptions or excuses, or you can walk out the door.” Chockhelm, who stood nearly a head shorter than everyone in the room, and held none of the quiet seriousness of Weinstock, had a general good nature about him that Jamie could sense most of the men were drawn to immediately. While not exactly a friend, he was not an enemy. He didn’t wish to see anyone hurt. “Showers can be found down the hall. Food is available in the mess hall. Do try and go to sleep. It won’t do you any good if you can’t hear the instructions given to you, let alone perform them.” And just like that, he was alone, and the twenty-odd new recruits were left to their own devices.

There were twenty six of them to be exact; twenty six fresh faced, round eyed young men from the ripe age of eighteen to his own twenty one, up to twenty four. In time, he would learn most of their names. Some of them would become brothers, others enemies. But for now, all of them were strangers, and the silence that followed their abandonment was shattered by the surprised exclamation of someone Jamie couldn’t see - _“Shit, this is it, then.”_ \- and the resulting laughter from everyone else.

This is it, then.

He looked to Ian, whose eyes glittered. _We made it,_ they seemed to say, and despite the rising thrill, something in the back of Jamie’s mind whispered dangerously.

_We made it… this far._

But the war would take them farther than either of them thought possible.


	4. This is the Army, Mr. Jones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so sorry for the delay here, guys! i posted this on tumblr a while ago but forgot to update it here :( - i will be hoping to have the next chapter up hopefully by the end of the weekend! send some inspiration my way. the end of the semester is kicking my butt. anywho, i hope you all have a lovely friday night! 
> 
> much love from your dysfunctional pal ~

Four and a half weeks and Jamie Fraser had not so much as _seen_ an airplane. The excitement (and impatience) seemed to build with each day, working him up to the point where a knot sat just below his ribcage. It dissipated overnight, his childish wonder replaced by steadily increasing disappointment.

Ian groaned across the table, rubbing at his shoulder. “At this rate, Jamie, I wonder if we should pack our bags and join up wi’ the army boys,” he grumbled around a mouthful of powdery eggs (“Get you boys used to real food!” the cook had said, laughing at their horror. “No time to scramble decent eggs when shit’s running down your leg and you’re crouched in the mud in some unnamed fucking ditch!”). Jamie gave a small grunt of agreement, eyed his own fork with distaste, and swallowed with a grimace.

“Ye think they make everyone wait this long, or are we just beyond helping?” Jamie put down his fork, one eyebrow quizzically raised and leaned forward to rest his head on his forearms on the table. “A month and then some and I couldna even tell ye how ta open the damned cockpit.”

Ian raised a mug of stale juice in a mock toast, muttering something under his breath along the lines of “at least we still have clean toothbrushes.”

But neither of them really knew how long that would last, either. First their shower privileges, then powdered eggs… next, they’d be prohibited from brushing their teeth with anything other than the brush they used to polish their shoes.

Jamie began to wonder if perhaps the glorious life of a pilot was a fairytale after all.  


* * *

 

All of his wonderings were proven false the first time they dropped him behind the wheel in the cockpit of a beat up, but still shiny Mosquito NF. He fit in the seat like he was made to be there, despite the clammy palms and nervous sweat on his brow.

“Now,” Weinstock’s voice boomed from Jamie’s left, “I trust that ye’ve all been using your time wisely and becoming accommodated with our birds.” Two months into this hellish endeavor and the first taste of what actual piloting must be like. They had first been shown a plane three weeks ago and spent hours every day after PT and mealtime to become familiar with the layout and the way everything worked. Jamie and Ian had spent quite a fair deal of their free time on the tarmac as well, and it wasn’t something that Weinstock hadn’t noticed. Hence why Jamie was currently the first student perched inside the Mosquito’s belly, in a puddle of his own sweat and his heart hammering incessantly in his chest. He could practically feel Ian’s nervous excitement from the crew seat behind him. “-Fraser and Murray here will demonstrate that. I trust you all to pay close attention, and maybe learn a thing or two.” Jamie hadn’t even realized Weinstock was still speaking, and swallowed quickly, swiping his palms discreetly on his pants as the older man’s face appeared at the side of the cockpit.

“Captain,” Jamie greeted with a dry tongue.

The man almost smiled. “Fraser.” He turned his head to peer back at Ian. “Murray.” A moment of silence. “You boys are up for this, ain’t ya?” Jamie’s grin and Ian’s enthusiastic nod spoke for themselves. Weinstock sucked his teeth. “Mm. Thought so. Right, you’re all well and good out here, our strip boys have made sure the old girl’s not quite too old. There’s a full tank and everything out here’s all sealed up. How’s she look inside, boy?”

Jamie cleared his throat and turned to inspect the plane. All gauges set to zero. All rudder pedals and trim switches in the proper positions. Receiver unit turned on and set to the air captain’s frequency. He didn’t look back up at Weinstock when he replied. “All good, sir.”

“Good. Murray, you make sure this hothead here doesn’t do anything stupid. Keep an eye on those gauges boys, take her up too fast and you’ll be coming back down even faster. Your guns will shoot blanks, but go ahead and give her a few test shots while you’re up there, get a feel for how she flies, alright?” He didn’t wait for an affirmative before closing the hatch and banging a hand on the glass. “Start her up, Fraser.” His voice was muffled and his breath momentarily fogged the window, but Jamie couldn’t miss the hint of a smile on his face.

He took a deep breath, glanced over his right shoulder at Ian, and started the engine.

It sputtered for a moment, not quite roaring or purring to life like he had expected, and then started with a clank, the plane suddenly coming to life. The needles on the gauges jumped, the lights flashed on in unison, and the propellor kickstarted with a whir.

“Alright, Jamie,” Ian’s voice came through his headset, slightly garbled and out of time with his mouth, but steady and reassuring. “Maybe try not to bring us down prematurely?”

Jamie wanted to laugh, but just swallowed thickly and nodded instead, hands taking the yoke and guiding the nose of the plane forward and right towards the strip of asphalt they would be taking off from. In his mind, all of the formulated steps he had studied for how to take off melted away. On instinct, he pushed the yoke forward and the engine hummed in agreement, the aircraft steadily picking up speed as it bounced down along the pavement.

Towards the end of the strip, Jamie’s heart whispered a prayer - _Hail Mary, full of grace_ \- and he pulled the yoke. The plane jumped, skittered forward a few feet, and then the nose lifted and he felt the wheels lift off the ground.

And they were flying.

Ian let out a small whoop of excitement and Jamie grinned, releasing out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding as he looked at the dials, slowly bringing the plane up to altitude. When he leveled it off and gave the bird back its nose, she flew straight and steady, the contented rumble of the engine seeping into his bones.

The radio crackled in their headsets, and then the smiling voice of Captain Weinstock trickled through. “Well done boys, well done. Give us a loop around to the right and give those guns a fire.”

Ian answered for him, and Jamie rolled right, the wing of the plane easily dipping to carry them in a graceful arc. He moved his thumbs to the triggers on the yoke and fired as they came out of the turn.

Ian clapped his shoulder in excitement, and Jamie’s hands momentarily trembled with nervous thrill. He gave off another few shots, and then let Ian have a go with the secondary weapons. As they turned in another wide loop, Jamie was able to look down and see the crowd of men gathered on the tarmac, many with their hands pressed to their ears, and many with their hats in their hands, waving in excitement.

Jamie grinned and turned to meet the beaming face of his best friend.

* * *

 

The next few months flew by. Literally. The boys were up in the air twice a week at first, rotating flying shifts with the other recruits. When they weren’t flying, they were sitting in hot, close-quartered lecture halls, listening to one of the corporals yammer on about the plane, the war, the whole bloody ordeal. The further into the training they progressed, the less Jamie seemed able to believe it. It was like sitting in a locked room, watching the chaos happening outside the window. _Germans invaded Poland. France declares war…_

On a cool morning in September they received the news.

“Boys, we are now at war with the Germans.” Major Hammond was pacing back and forth in front of the room, hands clasped behind his back. It was quiet enough that Jamie could have heard a pin drop. A few murmurs sounded from the back of the room, but everyone fell silent as Hammond turned to face them all. “We expect it won’t be long before the Americans follow suit. Looks like we’ll be having another world war.” A hush fell over the room, broken only by the harsh sound of someone breathing. “You best see your assigned officers, find out where you’ll all be headed.”

Hammond wrung his hat between his hands and looked at each and every one of them as his eyes passed over the crowd. “Good luck to you, men. And may God have mercy on your souls.”


	5. I'll Be Home for Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello all! as promised, here is chapter four!! i hope you all are having a wonderful day, and you can catch this next chapter on tumblr later this evening! :)

Jenny met them at the train station in Inverness, waiting with a small sign that had  _ Fraser/Murray _ written messily on it with a black marker. She was a sight to sore eyes, and Jamie’s heart warmed to see her. After a series of hugs and kisses all around (and Jenny smacking both of them on the chest with her sign, now rolled up), they had piled in a cab and headed home. 

The village in which they lived, large enough to boast a gas station and a supermarket, was still small and traditional enough that even seeing the old, hand-carved wooden welcome sign felt like walking up his own driveway.  _ North Tower _ , it read,  _ est. 1702. Pop. 1,250 _ . The village dated back to the time of Jamie’s ancestral grandfather, who had erected the manor house, Lallybroch, and a few surrounding houses, known then as  _ Broch Tuarach:  _ North Facing Tower. The modest estate had thrived under the hands of Frasers for generations afterward and eventually become home to enough people to qualify as a hamlet, and now a village. Since that weathered sign had been made, there had even been a new street of houses built, and another hundred people moved in or had been born. 

It gave Jamie a small flush of pride to drive down Main Street, and he found himself practically pressed against the window, taking in the town he had grown up in with a newfound sense of wonder. In the back of his mind, the prickling thought that in a few months’ time he would be off and fighting in this bloody war sat waiting, and he half wondered as they passed out of town and onto the road that would lead them to Lallybroch if this would be one of the last times he saw it. 

The old manor house rose slowly in the distance and something warm settled itself in the pit of Jamie’s stomach. If it were to be one of the last times he set foot in his own home, he would enjoy every moment of it, and memorize as many details as he could: the way you had to pull the front door a little to get it to close properly; the way the third stair after the landing screeched if you stepped too far to the left; the sound of his shoes on the upstairs floor. All the little details he had come to take for granted. 

He set his bag down in the foyer and took a deep breath, listening to Ian and Jenny make parting remarks in the front yard as Ian headed off towards his own home, a small cabin a little ways off. “Welcome home, brother,” Jenny said softly, her hand on his shoulder, and Jamie smiled. 

* * *

“Jamie?” Jenny tapped a knuckle softly on the door to his room and he admitted her with a grunt of acknowledgment, looking up from the book he had been reading with furrowed brows.

“All right, Jenny?” She had an odd look on her face - it wasn’t exactly nervousness, just a strange look of apprehension. 

“Oh, aye,” she said after a moment, “well enough. ‘Tis only Mr. McAlister's rung askin’ for ye, says he’d appreciate could ye swing by and pay him a visit.” 

Jamie’s brow furrowed even more. Well, that explained her odd expression. “Auld man McAlister? What does he want?” McAlister was an old man who lived on the outskirts of town, holed up in a small cabin on the edge of the moor he rarely ever left, save to come into town to buy booze and generally cause a hubbub. For him to want to see Jamie, something must have happened. They’d barely exchanged ten words, and not since Jamie had been a lad and put a baseball through his window. Brian had brought him back and forced him to go back and apologize, and he and McAlister had exchanged little more than pleasantries in the last few years. 

Jenny shrugged. “He didna say, only asked if ye could come for a visit. Sounded serious.” 

“Aye, thank ye, Jenny,” he said, closing the book and running a hand through his hair. “I’ll go down later today and see what he’s after.” 

Three-quarters of an hour later, Jamie stood on Old McAlister’s front stoop, shoulders hunched up to his ears against the cold and his nose bright red. He had a brown paper bag and a bottle of good Scotch tucked beneath his arm and his hands were shoved deep into his pockets. He knocked once and then stepped back, turning around and looking down the dirt driveway and out to the snow-covered moors. A light snow had begun, and small, feathery flakes danced here and there, dusting everything. 

The door swung open and Jamie turned to see Aidan McAlister, hunched slightly and grey from time. He leaned heavily on a carved wooden cane and peered up at Jamie through a pair of spectacles perched on a crooked nose. “Fraser,” he greeted with a grunt but didn’t make a move to let him inside. 

Jamie made a slight leg, bowing. “Your servant, sir. My sister Janet said ye rang the house asking after me, and I came to see if everything was alright. Are ye well, Mr. McAlister?” 

The old man, as if puzzled Jamie had asked such a thing, arched both eyebrows and stepped back, admitting the young man in and out of the cold with a muttered “Well enough.” The house was surprisingly warm and well-kempt, and Jamie stepped in gratefully his breath dissipating against the heat. He stood up straighter and reached to loosen his scarf, sniffling and casting a preliminary glance around the house. 

McAlister shut the door behind him and hobbled forward, his cane clacking on the old wooden floorboards. Jamie followed him slowly past the kitchen and into the living room, where the man slowly lowered himself into a worn, soft looking armchair. He gestured with his cane to a slightly dusty couch, and Jamie sat down obligingly, producing the paper bag from his coat. “I’ve brought ye a wee gift, sir,” he said politely, offering the bottle. “MacPhail’s. Good scotch - it was my Da’s favorite.” 

A moment of silence passed, and then McAlister leaned forward to take the bottle, inspecting it. He cracked the lid and took a deep breath, nodding appreciatively. He stood up with a small grunt, leaving the bottle on the small coffee table, and Jamie made to stand. “Sit,” he said gruffly, and Jamie stayed put, watching him disappear into the kitchen and then come back with two warped glasses, into which he poured a small bit of the whiskey. He passed one glass to Jamie as he sat again, and raised it ever so slightly. “Sláinte.” 

Jamie accepted it gratefully, exchanging a small “Sláinte,” in return, and took a drink. 

After a few minutes of silence, in which Jamie glanced subtly at what small possessions he could see, McAlister rolled his glass between his hands, lips pursed. “Ye ken why I’ve asked ye here, Fraser?” His voice was gruff but surprisingly gentle. 

“No, sir.” 

McAlister nodded and set down his glass with a sigh. “I signed up wi’ the Army when I was a lad, perhaps five and twenty, but I didna see combat until I was forty-one.” He wasted no preamble, and Jamie leaned forward slightly, eyebrows drawn together in concentration. “My son went too; he was only eighteen at the time.” He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “The last time I saw him alive, he was showing me a shiny pin they’d pinned to his chest.” He didn’t sound upset, Jamie thought with a small pang of surprise, only removed as if he talked about the abstract, or someone else’s life. In a small way, Jamie supposed it was someone else’s life. 

“I fought in the Battle o’ the Somme, later in Ypres and Cambrai, then Amiens. They sent me home wi’ twa bullets in my leg.” He rubbed his left knee pensively, and his eyes looked somewhere past Jamie. “Those four years, laddie, those were some o’ the worst o’ my life.” Now, his eyes shifted to Jamie’s face, and he was taken aback by the depth of emotion he saw swimming in their grey depths. He swallowed, and could only stare at McAlister. 

“I’d give ye some advice if ye’ll be havin’ it, before ye go awa’ yourself.” Jamie gave a small, gracious nod, and McAlister grunted, leaned forward, and poured a generous helping of whiskey into both of their glasses. 

* * *

By the time McAlister finished talking it was nearly dark, the sun a pale, bright ball wavering just above the horizon.

The bottle of whiskey was nearly half empty and an old photo album sat on the table, opened for the first time in God only knew how many years. McAlister had fished it out of an old closet as he had talked, telling Jamie war stories that had his head spinning. And then, as if merely listening to it wasn’t enough, the old Scot produced a dusty album and gave Jamie a nod of permission to look through it. 

“Ain’t s’posed ta have those,” McAlister had explained quietly, twirling his whiskey glass. “No one’s s’posed ta have those.” 

Jamie knew why. 

There were photos of atrocities he could scarcely imagine: men with their heads blown clean off, their brains splattered on the wall, the bodies of children lying abandoned in ditched, the remains of a tank smoking and burning against the night sky, men set ablaze like matchsticks, clawing at their skin as if to rip it off. It made bile rise in the back of his throat and he closed the book gently, looking up at McAlister slowly. 

“Don’t look so green ‘round the gills,” the man grumbled, but without any venom. They sat in silence for a while, and then the old man leaned forward, scooped up the album, and returned it to its place on the dusty old shelf in the closet. When he came and sat back down, he fixed Jamie with a queer sort of look. “Ye ken now why I asked ye here?” 

Jamie could only nod slightly, his mouth like cotton. 

“Good,” McAlister said softly, and then reached out to set one surprisingly strong hand on Jamie’s shoulder, gripping it hard. “Dinna forget it, laddie. Everyone wants ta go to war ‘til they’ve stood on a field wi’ a gun in their hand and been told to fire.” He sighed softly as he leaned back in his chair. “And no one understands what ye’re like when ye come back.” 

He said nothing else, just continued to look at Jamie with that oddly unnerving steel gaze, and the redhead bobbed his head slightly, draining the last remnants in his glass before slowly getting up to go. His limbs were leaden and his fingers trembled as he put his scarf on, doing up the buttons on his jacket. 

On his way out the door, there was a small noise from the living room. He turned to look back at McAlister, one hand on the door. “Have a Merry Christmas, Jamie Fraser,” the old man murmured, and Jamie was almost surprised to see he meant it. Very slowly, he inclined his head and touched his chest. 

“Merry Christmas, sir.” And he stepped out into the gathering darkness. 


End file.
